


History

by Quinara



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Gen, Post-Chosen, season: post-series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-10-02
Updated: 2004-10-01
Packaged: 2017-10-02 02:52:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 19,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quinara/pseuds/Quinara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Buffy learns about the Slayer's past and travels to Africa to meet it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Better Living through Chemistry

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to amarasaa for the beta, though she isn't around anymore. And apologies for the song lyrics. It was 2004!

_The blue pill opens your eyes;  
Is there a better way?  
A new religion prescribed  
To those without the faith  
The hero holding a knife,  
And blood is not enough.  
Is it too late to go back?  
Is it too late to go?_

.

She was in a pub.

Well, at least, she thought she was in a pub.

She should really ask.

Apparently, she was in a pub.

Weird.

She'd never had that much experience with 'pubs' before. Well, not British ones, anyway. Still, this one stank of smoke and booze, just like the ones back home. The smell was quite nice actually, now that she thought about it: it was all warm, and comforting, and … homey. It wasn't just the smell either. There was homey wood, which was probably veneered, and a homey carpet with a homey faded pattern. OK, so the homey pub was anything like her _actual_ home, but for a home away from home it wasn't half bad.

She should ask where she was, so that she could come back again. All she knew was that the place was called "The Red Lion". Or "The Lion's Head". Or possibly "The King's Head". Though it couldn't be the third one, because weren't kings supposed to be evil, and all oppressy? No one there seemed to be oppressed and unhappy, though, and weren't they ruled by a queen?

They were all looking at her a little funny, she realised. Probably wasn't to do with them being ruled by a queen. Probably to do with the _"Am I in a pub?"_ question earlier.

Who knew that Londoners were so mean? She couldn't even ask a simple question! They were almost as bad as her friends. Any minute now, they'd be getting off their barstools, looking at her seriously, voices full of it, asking her what she wanted to do with her life, and wouldn't it be _exciting_, being able to go wherever she wanted?

Of course, Dawnie had to go to school somewhere, and she had to get a job, but otherwise, you know, the world was her oyster.

Given the current situation, the speech'd probably keep going, and they'd move on to telling her that alcohol is _bad_, and pull out their matching "Alcohol is Bad" banners, delighting in showing them to her. Before hitting her over the head with them.

Of course, that would be followed by them force-feeding Kennedy down her throat, complete with an endless babble, in a sickly voice, saying _"It'd be great if you guys could get along. Really. Kennedy's trying to work on her ego the size of Mount Etna, and she's really starting to get over the loss of her boots back in Sunnydale. And, by the way, don't you think that it's a bit self-centred saying that your loss was bigger than hers? I mean, come on, Buffy, those boots were expensive. She won't be able to afford another pair until at least five hours of her Slayer-salary comes through."_

Not that it would end there. Giles would have to have his say: look at her earnestly and tell her that of _course_ she deserved a Slayer-salary to cover her and Dawn travelling for a bit … but surely she realised it wasn't healthy for her not to earn her money.

Because the things he did for his money were so much more worthwhile. You had to have someone to dump things on you, otherwise nothing would get dumped, and then where would you be?

 

She closed her eyes, battling the start of her headache. She wasn't supposed to be thinking about them. She was just supposed to be enjoying her weird beer in the weird pub and maybe looking at the weird patterns on the carpet. That was a bit hard, though, because the stupid barman kept looking at her as if she was an idiot, and the guy next to her kept trying to come on to her, but forgetting that he'd already tried about an hour ago … and another time before that. If he said, _"Yer not from raahnd 'ere, are yer, daahlin'?"_ in that stupid accent one more time, she knew she was gonna break something. Screw the homey pub.

Looking around angrily, she realised that the homey pub wasn't that homey anymore. The charm was quickly fading, as quickly as the artificial warmth was decaying.

She drew herself in to battle the rising cold. She really just wanted to go to sleep.

* * *

She got kicked out later. The guy had said it was well past closing time, anyway. At least, she thought he had. The cold stickiness of the bar, and the stale, corroding smell had chased her out much more than anything he'd said.

She didn't want to go home yet. There was no point. And there were no trains. Besides, the October air was good for her pounding headache.

She shivered as a gust of wind went over her, and swirled some leaves at her feet. Breathing in the wind, she smiled, eyes closed, as her nose began to tingle. This was nice. She'd never had her nose tingle from inner cold before. It was new. A novelty.

That was what she searched for, these days: novelty. Something that she could find out on her own. Judge with her own judgement, instead of anyone else's. Independent thought and an independent life. That was the idea, anyway.

Bumming around Europe and Asia had been invigorating. She'd never been away from California, and had never realised how sanitised it was. Away from it, she'd been able to live, free from petty rules and her own petty feelings, and it had changed her.

Not that she hadn't changed before. Sunnydale had already taken a large chunk of something.

Before she'd gone, she hadn't been able to talk to her friends. Every time they'd opened their mouths, she had felt anger rise within her, ricocheting into frustration �" and she'd had no idea where it had come from. She'd known that she was still annoyed with them, for kicking her out of the house, and never bothering to apologise afterwards. And she'd known that seven years with the same three people was often too much for anyone.

But she hadn't known how much she felt it, and how much her resentment had been twisting inside of her. She could still feel a twinge of it now, actually, the sickening cold-burn. Although, that could just be the whiskey from earlier.

She sat down on a wall, willing the moment to pass. The stone beneath her was cracked and wobbly, and some branches of an overgrown bush were digging into her back. Her coat was completely useless.

She revelled as she shivered.

In the few weeks that she had been in England, she had quickly accepted the cold, as she had accepted her feelings. She knew she couldn't change them, in the same way that she couldn't change the weather. There was no use in trying, either. Nothing good came from that.

So she knew that she was angry with her friends. It was pretty obvious. Even as she walked it was playing through her system, making her fingers tingle in a way that was wholly different to the cold. The rage was futile, though, because she knew that trying to talk things through with them would _not_ help.

They refused to believe that they ever had problems. Refused to _see_. So she'd done the only thing she could, and gotten away from them. Now, she would just have to move on. _Get over it._ The feelings between them all had been used up, possibly sucked out by the Hellmouth (could she blame that for everything?), and it was likely that there was nothing more that she could do.

Especially when Giles did things like _deciding_ that she and Dawn must've had enough of Nepal, making it time for them to come back to London.

 

She rubbed her temples, refusing to dwell on her bitterness anymore. She looked to the sky, and was disappointed to find the stars blocked out by civilisation.

* * *

"Hello, Summers' Res…. I mean, 740 22873?"

"Dawn, it's me."

"Buffy! Where are you? It's, like, six in the morning!"

"Sorry. I just … felt like a walk."

"You got drunk again, didn't you?"

"I wouldn't call it drunk exactly…. Besides, I'm totally sober now, and the hangover's … much better than it was a couple of hours ago."

"Buffy. You can't keep doing this."

"I know, I know. Can one of you guys pick me up? … I would get the train, but my ticket was only for yesterday, and you know how lame I am with the changing… And, I kinda … spent all�""

"Where are you?"

"Um, outside some subway�""

"Tube."

"�"tube station called 'Whitechapel'. Hey, pretty�""

"God, Buffy! Do you have _any_ idea where you are?"

"What d'you mean?"

"And you've been walking around…on your own…all _night_? Buffy, you can't keep doing this…I mean, one day…I'm trying to understand, really I am…but you're not _invincible_, Buffy. You're _not_…."

"Okay, Dawnie. Calm down."

"I know. Sorry. You're s'posed to be the older sister, not me. I just need to _chill out_."

"Dawn…."

"No. It's fine. Me and Andrew … we'll get a taxi. Just don't move. And, _please_, just keep your phone out of sight."

"Okay. Thanks,�""

.

_There's no one here,  
And people everywhere, you're all alone.  
-Queens of the Stoneage, Better Living Through Chemistry_


	2. Hello

_I don't feel as if I know you,  
You take up all my time.  
The days are long and the night will blow you away,  
‘Cause the sun don't shine.  
Nobody ever mentions the weather can make or break your day.  
Nobody ever seems to remember life is a game we play._

.

The wind was pricking at her eyes again. She’d spent the morning trying to fend the tears off, doing anything to try and save her make-up. Now, though, they were big enough to drip, and she did _not_ want to see what would happen if they did.

Gingerly, she dabbed at her tear ducts, using the wool of her white gloves to absorb the water. She pulled back her fingers, and on the tip of each were specks of cheap mascara. Not unexpected, but not desirable either. Still, her eyes were dry again. Absent-mindedly, she tried to wipe the specks off onto her coat. Only they didn’t want to go, and instead spread over her fingertips, leaving black streaks behind them.

She cursed mildly, not knowing what else to do.

“Are you OK?” Buffy jumped at Andrew’s voice, having forgotten that she wasn’t alone.

“Yeah, fine. Just, y’know, cold.” She couldn’t be bothered to explain the actual reason. And besides, it _was_ cold. Freezing cold, despite the sun in the sky. It was mocking her: blazing in a sea of clear, bright blue, an exact parody of summer, but without any of the warmth. There was _still_ some frost lingering beneath their creaky bench. She decided that it was a very British sun.

She seemed to be the only one who minded, though. Everyone else was getting on fine, walking briskly among the pigeons; tall figures of black, with cheery faces and scarves of thick wool and bright colours. None of them ever ruined their shoes in puddles, though Buffy herself couldn’t pass one without her foot landing in the deepest point.

Shivering, she drew her own black coat closer around her. To think, that she could be in Nepal, or somewhere, wearing her pashmina as a pashmina, instead of a substitute scarf. Scowling, she kicked at some water, spraying a pigeon. It squawked, and flew away. She smirked.

“Buffy?” She looked around, washing all pettiness from her face. Andrew wasn’t looking at her, though. Instead, he was looking at his feet, which were swinging beneath him, toes grazing the surface of his own puddle.

“Yeah?” It was hard not to be short with Andrew. He’d changed since the Hellmouth, but there was still something about him that got on her nerves. She would never have let him stay with her, if he wasn’t such good friends with Dawn (_just_ friends, though – a fact that she was thankful for on a daily basis).

“D’you ever think that you can know too much?” He was still watching his feet.

“Huh?” That was the one of the problems with New-and-Improved-Andrew. Whereas before he’d babbled out his thoughts in an endless, over-dramatic stream, he now only let you in on part of them, meaning that they made even less sense than before.

“D’you ever think that maybe it’s better _not_ to know what’s coming next?” He was looking up now, gazing into the distance with a pseudo-mysterious air.

“Again: huh?”

“I mean, you’ve got experience with prophecy.” Finally, he turned to look at her. “ Is it better to know what will happen, or is it better to…not?”

She paused then, thinking. Being who she was, prophecy was something she thought about quite often, leading her to the conclusion that everything about prophecy was a trade-off. After her first death, and the Master’s rising, she’d thought that it simply did more harm than good. Without it, though, she would probably be permanently dead, without any hope of resurrection.

She said as much to Andrew, who nodded in a caricature of understanding.

“So, what are your views on spoilers?” He remained completely earnest. “’Cause I was thinking about _Enterprise_. The new season’s started, obviously, but, I mean, who knows when I’m going to see it? D’you think it’d be better to…”

Buffy groaned. She’d forgotten that, with Andrew, it always came back to his geeky obsessions. Dawn could try all she wanted to make him more of a “cool” geek (Buffy still had no idea what that meant), but it was clear that she wasn’t going to get anywhere. He was just a nerd: not cool, not anything.

“…I just want to know if they’re all right in the Expanse. Is that so bad?”

She was fine with him being a nerd. She wasn’t that shallow. It was just when he forgot she _wasn’t_ one, and assumed that she knew what the hell he was talking about.

“Erm, have you asked Dawn?” Where _was_ Dawn anyway? Buffy was pretty sure it didn’t take this long to get a few sandwiches.

“Yeah. But she doesn’t understand the moral dilemma I’m in.”

“There’s a dilemma?”

“Yes: to be spoilt, or not to be spoilt.”

“And you think that I understand?” Because she really, really didn’t.

“You’re the Slayer.” _A_ Slayer, she was _a_ Slayer. “You know about moral dilemmas. Every night you slay the Vampyres, knowing that deep inside each one there could be a lost soul, striving for redemption.”

“You have no idea how many things are wrong with that sentence. And I haven’t _slain_ any vampires in a long time.” Being as she was just _a_ Slayer, there was no need for her to patrol anymore.

“But –”

“Hey, guys!” Dawn called across the square. She came over to meet them, walking quickly through puddles, ruffling several pigeons as they hurriedly tried to get out of her way. “Sorry I took so long, but Starbucks, corporation-of-doom, has this place pretty much monopolised, so I had to look for some place else, and…” Buffy didn’t know whether to smile or groan. She was proud of Dawn for having a social conscience, but, when it came to it, she just wasn’t sure if she was proud enough to give up her decaf-soy-mochas (no matter how fattening they were).

Still, she was making an effort, a proper effort, to be a better sister to Dawn. And so, if Dawn wanted to burn every Starbucks to the ground and have a gaggle of geeky friends, she would have to support her in any way possible.

“…found out that British people have two types of chicken, so the guy had to explain what chicken tikka was…”

But no one could be supportive on an empty stomach.

“You got the sandwiches though, right?”

“Yeah.” Dawn looked a little put-out at not being allowed to finish her story. “They don’t seem to do eggplant…or “aubergine”…over here, though, so I just got you chicken salad.” Dawn said it like a come-back.

“They didn’t put cucumber in, did they?” That would be going beyond revenge.

“No. You’re safe from the ‘green goo of death’.”

“Hey! Cucumbers are evil, y’know.” Dawn rolled her eyes, but handed the sandwich over anyway. Buffy opened it and began to eat, deciding it was too cold to be worried about whether it was fat-free mayonnaise or not.

As she concentrated on her sandwich, she heard Dawn give Andrew his, and sit down. They talked about something or other, but Buffy soon tuned out their voices, adding them to the white noise of the city.

About five minutes later, she finished eating. Looking around for a bin, she noticed for the first time that Dawn had gotten out a magazine.

“Ooh. What’cha reading?” She felt like a bit of celebrity gossip. Only, looking over her sister’s shoulder, it quickly became clear that she wasn’t reading a gossip magazine. For one thing, there weren’t any pictures: well, none of Christina Aguilera with bony knees, anyway.

“Archaeology journal,” Came the quick response. Definitely _not_ Christina Aguilera with bony knees, Bufffy thought to herself.

“Sounds…interesting.” It really didn’t.

“Oh, it is! There’s been some research into the Greek letters, and they reckon there’s some Egyptian…. I suppose you don’t really care about that.”

“Not so much. I’m kinda worried that you do, though.”

“Oh, it just caught my eye.”

“The magazine?” Because it looked pretty dull to her.

“No, the article. As I was reading the magazine.” She sounded a bit angry. “You know, Buffy, I can read about archaeology if I want to.” She passed the magazine to Andrew, who was keeping his eyes down. “Just because you’re not interested in anything old – unless it’s pointing out someone’s shoes that are “so last season” – doesn’t mean that I’m not.”

“Hey! I’m totally into old stuff.” She wasn’t a complete airhead.

“Yeah right, Buffy.” Obviously, Dawn thought she was. “Look. It doesn’t matter. Just don’t get all superior when I want to look at relics, and you want to look at Christina Aguilera with flabby knees.”

“It was bony knees,” Buffy muttered, feeling a little upset. Dawn just looked at her strangely.

“Hey, guys,” said Andrew, breaking the silence and causing Dawn to flip around, “I think I found something.”

Buffy didn’t realise that they were looking for something. She started to say something, but Dawn glared at her once more. However, as she began to scan the article, Buffy could see her mood change, and a smile form on her lips.

“Definitely something.” She was grinning now. “Look, Buffy.” Dawn thrust the magazine into her hands. “‘Extremely advanced metal smiths in prehistoric Uganda’, aka supernatural relic just begging to be investigated.”

Apparently this was what they were looking for: this “remarkably well preserved” gold wristband, with what was “quite likely diamond” running through it. Beneath the headline was a grainy black and white picture of it lying half-buried in some sand. It didn’t look very impressive, but it did fill her with a sense of familiarity. The more she looked at it, the more the feeling grew, until she could see it perfectly in her mind’s eye, the metal gleaming and lustrous. It was longer lying in sand, though…

_…But on her wrist, the gold weighing heavily. The light was dim, but the veins of diamond were clearly visible, almost pulsing as they were with an inner light. Her left hand, jewellery free, was held by someone else, their fingers entwined with hers. The hold felt sure and secure: a sanctuary in the almost overwhelming gloom._

_Without warning, energy rushed through her, causing her to spasm. Her insides jarred, and she was unable to move. Her right arm was stretched out, muscles taught, and her wrist was thrust into the darkness of the cavern._

_A bolt of light released the energy, bursting from the veins in the wristband. The cavern lit up, and she closed her eyes to the intensity. Red flared across her eyelids._

_A minute later, the light faded and she blinked her eyes open, seeing spots. Her left hand was squeezed gently, and she smiled, turning around. She was met by an answering smile, coupled with a pair of deep, blue eyes._

* * *

“Buffy? Are you OK?”

Buffy opened her eyes, looking blearily into her sister’s. There was no smile, just a worried frown. And the eyes were brown, not blue.

“Yeah, I’m OK.” She realised she was on the ground, and sat up, putting a gloved hand straight into a puddle. The gloves were going to be ruined. She would buy black ones next time. “Just a bit of relic-induced weirdness.”

“I knew it was something!” Andrew said, looking excited on the other side of her. The shrillness in his voice caused her head to throb. She winced.

“What’d you see?” Dawn was trying to be quiet, she could tell, but curiosity burned in her eyes, overcoming the sympathy. She was practically bouncing as she crouched.

“Oh…not much.” Only, y’know, dead vampires and flashy jewellery.

She closed her eyes again, trying to shut out the vision. Getting up, she sat back on the bench, pulling her wet glove off her right hand to wring it out.

“Buffy.” She didn’t look up, and concentrated on her glove. It was now a grimy grey colour. Dawn didn’t say anything more, and Buffy could feel the air getting heavier.

“It was…nothing that really matters, OK? Just flashbacks and stuff.”

“I love flashbacks.” Andrew interjected, breaking the tension as he sat down next to her. “What was it to? ‘Cause that usually means something. This one time, on –”

“Andrew! This isn’t, like, Geek-Fest 2003!” Dawn sounded angry, but obviously fighting a smile. She took the other side of Buffy, picking up the journal from where it had fallen on the ground. She rolled it up, saying, “I think we need to go see Giles about this. I mean, it was Slayer-related weirdness, right?”

“Yeah.” Well, it was related to her relationship with the wristband, which was related to saving the world, which was related to slaying. She didn’t see why they had to go and see Giles about it though. He was probably busy enough already. And, if he got the vision out of her in its entirety, she doubted he’d want to help anyway.

“You should probably rest or something…unless you have concussion!”

“I don’t have concussion.”

“Let me see your pupils.” She grabbed hold of her head. Buffy was too weary to fight her off. “What do dilated pupils look like? What d’you think, Andy?”

“I dunno….”

“I’m fine! I didn’t even hit my head!” The last thing she needed was to be forbidden sleep.

“We should get back to the ‘flat’ anyway. And you should probably write down your vision, so you don’t forget it or something.”

“Look, just stop worrying! Besides, I’m not gonna forget it.”

She really wasn’t.

.

_And it's never gonna be the same,  
‘Til the life I knew comes to my house and says  
Hello.  
-Oasis, Hello_


	3. The People that We Love

_Speed kills coming down the mountain,  
Speed kills coming down the street.  
Speed kills with presence of mind, and  
Speed kills if you know what I mean.  
Got to feel - woke up inside again,  
Got to feel less broke more fixed.  
Got to feel when I got outside myself,  
Got to feel when I touched your lips._

.

_Breaking away from his smile, she looked back around the cavern. A residual glow hung in the air, along with an eerie silence. Before, the air had thrummed with subsonic growls, but now there was nothing._

_His grip tightened on her hand, and she matched it, thankful for the support. She grinned, unable to do anything else, and breathed in the cleansed air. Her body trembled with aftershocks, but she barely felt them._

_She turned back, wanting desperately to hug him…_

And awoke.

* * *

Buffy hadn’t been looking forward to meeting Giles, but she hadn’t realised that she would have to _wait_. She’d told the snooty receptionist that she was ‘Mr.’ Giles’ Slayer, and had been told, ever so politely, that ‘Mr.’ Giles watched for many, many girls.

Huh. And she’d thought that there was _only just a handful_.

After scowling at Dawn (a convenient substitute for the woman), she had sat down on one of the over-stuffed leather seats. There was a cluster of them, all mismatched, in one corner of the barren reception, clashing horribly with the magnolia walls. She supposed the large room must’ve once been the main office, instead of what it was now: the empty, unwelcoming reception for _COW Publications_.

Looking around, she was suddenly blinded by sunlight. It was flooding in through a wall of windows, showing up wear in the carpet and the dust in the air. Squinting, she turned away, focusing her eyes downwards to her hands.

An endless ten minutes later, the call came, in mocking, precise tones:

“Mr. Giles will see you now.”

Rising from her seat, Buffy headed over to the desk, and the door beside it. She wondered if she could get away with tipping coffee all over the woman’s tweed skirt.

Probably not.

* * *

After a rabbit warren of corridors, Buffy found the door labelled “Mr. Giles”. Without bothering to knock, she walked in.

“Excuse me!” Giles said angrily, looking up. Seeing her, his face changed. “Buffy! What a pleasant surprise! When Meredith said a– Dawn! Come in! Do sit down, both of you.” He came over to meet them, and then paused, as he saw Andrew come through the door. “Ah.” He didn’t look pleased. “I thought I’d…you’d gone to Scotland…for at least another month.”

“Yeah.” Andrew looked sheepish. And oblivious to Giles’ almost-terror. “It turned out that the demon drugs ring, that would’ve taken months of undercover work with the Edinburgh team to crack, was just an ordinary drugs ring. They got busted while I was on the train up. The division head up there knew how important I was to London, so they sent me back the same day – first class!”

Buffy could’ve sworn that Giles muttered something like “jammy bastards” under his breath, before continuing;

“Still. I’m, ah, surprised that you didn’t try and renew your _position_ here.”

Andrew blushed, “Sorry about that. I totally should’ve called you guys. But I’ve been hanging with Buffy and Dawn. You know how that goes.”

“Yeah,” Dawn muttered, “A bit different from when he hangs with you. We actually want him around.” It was loud enough so that Buffy could hear, though Andrew remained oblivious.

Giles coughed, flustered, “Do take a seat, the three of you. There’s a spare chair in the corner.” He went back behind his desk, and shuffled some papers into a pile.

Dawn went and got the chair (cheap: blond wood with blue upholstery), pointedly placing it next to Andrew’s.

“So.” Giles seemed to have regained some calm. “What is it you wished to see me about?”

Even if Buffy had had something to say, she would have been silenced by Dawn, who thrust the magazine out, running into an explanation:

“Basically, some archaeologist guy found this armband, saying it was an example of how much we’ve underestimated tribal craftsmen in prehistoric Africa. Like, way underestimated them. Which, though possible, is pretty suspicious, so I’m thinking it’s something demony: ‘cause that would make a whole load more sense. And, besides, Buffy had a Slayer-type-flashback when she saw it.”

“Really?” Giles had been scanning the article, keeping up with Dawn’s explanation. He stopped now, and looked at her over his glasses. “A flashback to what?”

“Well, it was less of a flashback.” It wasn’t a flashback at all. She’d just said that to Dawn to shut her up. “It was more of a dream, ‘cause it didn’t really happen. Only not a dream, ‘cause I wasn’t asleep. Sorta like a daydream. Or a vision. It was more of a vision, really.”

“And in this vision you saw…?”

Buffy opened her mouth, and then closed it. She didn’t want to talk to Giles about this. Thinking about it, she didn’t really want to talk to anyone about this. But it didn’t look like she would get that option;

“Buffy. I must know what you saw. Any dreams, or visions that a Slayer has can be…terribly important.”

She sighed. There was no use resisting, in the end.

Trying to gather her thoughts, she said, “There was me. And, I was in the cavern, you know, the one under Sunnydale: the Hellmouth. And I was wearing the bracelet-thing.” She rubbed her right wrist, half-expecting the weight to reappear. “Then I, er, killed all the vampires – those, um, Turkey-Harns – with it.” That wasn’t right. He’d killed all the vampires; she’d just been the conduit. But they weren’t to know that.

“How exactly did you do this? Kill the _Turok-Han_?” He emphasised the name, as if saying it clearly would make it any more memorable.

“Um, like, a load of sunlight, or something?” His soul, perhaps? He’d said something before the end. “It came out of the diamond-bits, and just…killed them.”

“How? Did they burn, or was it instantaneous?”

“I don’t know. I had my eyes closed.” If it was anything like she remembered the first time around, though…_She only caught a glimpse of flame, but laughter wouldn’t stop burning in her ears_…. She shook her head, growing angry. “Why does any of this matter, anyway? It didn’t happen.”

“Of course. Of course.” Giles began to clean his glasses. Buffy rolled her eyes. “It’s just that what you’ve told me isn’t very much to go on. It implies that this,” he glanced to the journal, “gauntlet _is_ supernatural in nature, but other than that….”

“Giles, don’t you see?” Dawn broke in. “This,” she shook the magazine, “has something to do with the last apocalypse. And, with Buffy’s vision, don’t you think it’d be at least useful to find out what that something is? What if we have to fight the First again? What if this is the key to Buffy’s, to our–”

“No.” This was one point Buffy was sure on. “I’m not fighting the First again. The Slayer-torch has passed.” She wasn’t going to lose anyone else. Not that way.

Dawn looked at her as if she’d grown another head.

And again, Giles was looking at her over his glasses. She had an impulse to rip them off and shove them up his nose.

“Are you saying you wish to,” he paused, “_retire_ from slaying?” He made it sound obscene.

“I’m not saying I want go and live in the real world, singing ‘la la la’ with my fingers in my ears every time I see a vamp, but yeah. I don’t want to deal with another apocalypse.” Since the last one killed…people. And left her with friends she couldn’t trust. Obscene or not, she thought she had a valid reason.

The others sat in silence for a moment, before Giles said, “Well. It doesn’t look like there are any portents of impending doom, just at the moment, so that shouldn’t be a problem.” Which meant it would be when there was impending doom. “So, back to your artefact.” His voice wavered. “I suppose there’s no harm in investigating it.”

Dawn leapt on that, and she and Giles began to talk about museums, books and other things. Buffy wasn’t really listening. She tried to concentrate, but was distracted by Andrew, who was staring at her, the look on his face telling her that his hero had just abandoned him.

* * *

It was only a few days later, when Buffy found herself in the ‘New Acquisitions Department’ of the British Museum. They’d been sent, hastily, through several doors marked ‘Private’, and then left there, while their stressed-looking escort had hurried away. Buffy didn’t mind, but wished that one of them had had the forethought to ask how long they were likely to have to wait this time.

The room was pretty gloomy, and housed what looked like thousands of cardboard boxes, lined up neatly in rows of shelves. The open area, which they were now standing in, consisted of one long wooden table, pushed against some windows, which had thick velvet curtains drawn across them. There no chairs, and dust littered most of the surfaces.

Buffy was beginning to get impatient, but after a moment the doors at the other end of the room opened. Two men entered, both carrying boxes. One of them, with brown hair, was laughing; obviously at something the other, blond, had just said.

The blond turned on a light switch, and after a brief flickering, the strip lighting began to glow high above them. The other placed his boxes on the table, and turned to look at them.

“Hello.” He said, walking over, “You must be the ‘specialists’ from, er, across the pond?”

Buffy and Andrew nodded, while Dawn made a squeaking noise.

“Yeah,” she said, after a cough. She was still trying to look cool, but was blushing furiously and kept fiddling with the strap on her digital camera. Buffy winced for her.

The guy looked sceptic, “Right.” Buffy nibbled nervously on her lip, and he glanced at her, “You know, I hate to say it…but you do look more like the American auxiliary of the _Famous Five_ than anything else.”

He looked at her bemusedly, and she looked back, blank.

“Dave,” his friend said, coming over to join him, “We’re ‘sposed to “help them in any way we can”, not take the piss.” He stuck out his hand, brushing some dirty blond hair out of his eyes. “Alex Wright. Pleased to meet you.”

“Buffy Summers,” she managed to get out, as he shook her hand. He concentrated on her for a moment, and then moved to Dawn and Andrew.

“Dave Chapman.” The other guy’s grip wasn’t as firm as his friend’s, though, to Buffy’s mind, his weasel-like features were much more friendly. “Sorry about the Blyton crack.” He smiled again, and Buffy found herself smiling back, even though she had no idea what he was talking about.

“Dave just loves showing off his crap taste in literature, don’t you, Dave?” Alex smirked at his friend, who squinted, fractionally,

“Yeah, well at least I don’t just look at the pictures.” He seemed unconcerned, though Buffy herself wondered why the insult had been necessary. Alex grinned a little more, however, and glanced over at Buffy, before replying;

“I’ll have you know, mate, that pictures can be very…what’s the word…oh yeah…_stimulating_.” He chuckled, and Dave just shook his head, obviously a little uncomfortable. It took a moment for Buffy to understand why. When she did, she blushed, and looked worriedly at Dawn, who seemed to be oblivious.

There was an uncomfortable silence for a few moments.

“Anyway,” Dave said, moving back to the boxes on the table. “Which artefact were you interested in, particularly?”

“It’s the bracelet, I bet you,” said Alex, putting his hands in his pockets. “Hell of a find, that. Plum’s gonna have us writing papers on it for years.” His expression changed, and he suddenly looked worried.

“Actually, yeah,” Dawn said apologetically, joining Dave at the table. “We just wanted to get some pictures. You know, for a, a study we’re doing. At, um, Harvard.” Buffy wished Giles hadn’t said that about them. She doubted any of them looked exactly like Harvard material. And she could practically see the _Legally Blonde_ comparisons going on in their heads as they looked at her.

Still, college name-dropping seemed to have some effect, and Dave unhesitatingly began to show Dawn, and a now curious Andrew, various objects. She remained at the other end of the table, leaning on the edge. Alex came over to meet her.

“So, Harvard,” he said, standing next to her and crossing his arms. “Bit of a long way to travel, isn’t it? Just for a few pictures of some bangle.”

“Well,” she tried to remember their cover story, “We’ve been in Africa quite a bit, and we, er, came over here a few weeks back. For, um, seminars and stuff. And to see the museums. It’s kinda like a field trip. Only, y’know, not.” He nodded, looking, to her, a little over-enthusiastic.

“Right. You see, I was wondering,” he scanned his eyes across her, and she crossed her arms, uncomfortable. “We don’t get many girls like you who’re into the African thing. I mean, no offence, but, to me, you look more like one of those Greco-Roman birds: less interested in the culture, and more interested in the size of a statue’s –”

“Yes, well.” She decided it was probably time to cut him off. “Africa’s always been in my blood.” Where the hell had that come from?

“Really?” He seemed impressed, and she had to wonder why. “Can’t say the same of myself. Me, I was just an Egyptology undergrad who got sick of all the mummies.” He grinned, and she offered a weak smile in return.

He coughed, “So. Where’re you from then, originally?” He turned to face her slightly, hip leaning on the edge of the table.

“Well, um, I’m not sure where _originally_, but I was living in California…” She blushed, “I mean, when I wasn’t at college. Y’know: just couldn’t bear to be away from home, had to go back every year, and stuff….” She hoped her slip wasn’t noticeable.

“California, eh?” He seemed to accept it. “Whereabouts? Anywhere near Los Angeles, Hollywood an’ all that?”

“Um, not _too_ far. It was this little town called Sunnydale. But that was,” She swallowed. How had she gotten onto this? “That was before….”

“Oh, I know Sunnydale! That place with the massive earthquake: swallowed the whole town.”

“Yeah.” So that was what they’d called it. An earthquake. Now she had even more reason to hate them.

“You know who you should talk to, if you were at Sunnydale? My mate Christie – ‘s all right, we’re not going out or anything – she’s completely mad about earthquakes.” Why would she care if they were ‘going out’ or not? She wasn’t going to talk to them about Sunnydale anyway.

“Yeah, um, if it’s OK with you, I’d prefer not to…”

“I mean, she’s absolutely obsessed with all those plate movements and seismographs and what ‘ave you.”

“Look, no offence to you, or “Christie”, or anyone, but I really don’t want to talk about…” The pulse in her head began to throb.

“You should come down the pub one night, ‘s what you should do, with me an’ Dave. I can introduce you to everyone.”

“That sounds very nice and everything, but…” Was that nausea?

“I mean, there’s Christie an’ Dom, Ben an’, what’s-‘er-name, Michelle, Brian an’ –”

“I’m sorry!” She said it loudly, silencing the room, though the echo was absorbed by the boxes. She winced. “I’m sorry. But there’s a lot of stuff going on right now, and…and….” She turned away. “Dawn, how are the pictures?”

Dawn was looking at her, as were Andrew and Dave.

“The pictures are, um, good.” Her expression was inscrutable.

“Well, we should probably…go then. We’ve got to do that thing.” She knew she didn’t sound convincing. She didn’t really care.

“Huh?” Apparently Dawn had forgotten every social grace she had ever known.

“You remember, Dawn, don’t you?” Somehow, though, Andrew had picked up a few. “We’ve gotta be somewhere after lunch.” He grabbed hold of Dawn’s elbow, and began to move her towards the door. “Thanks, Dave,” He called over his shoulder.

“Yeah, thanks,” Dawn did the same. “And you, Alex.” Alex nodded at her, still looking a bit shocked. He looked to Andrew, who simply glared at him. Disconcerted, he turned to Buffy once more;

“I’ll see you around then.”

“Yeah, um, maybe. Thanks for, um, all your help. And you, Dave.” She looked over to the other man, who nodded with something like understanding in his eyes. She smiled slightly, and followed the others out of the room.

As the door swung behind her, she heard some final, hushed words,

“Well, you buggered that one up, didn’t you? Poor cow.”

“What d’you mean “poor cow”? I’m the one she bloody insulted!”

“You really do have the perception of –”

The door settled closed.

.

_To find yourself in a foreign land:  
Another refugee, outsider refugee.  
What happened to you?  
-Bush, The People That We Love_


	4. Protect Me from What I Want

_It's that disease of the age,  
It's that disease that we crave.  
Alone at the end of the rave,  
We catch the last bus home.  
Corporate America wakes:  
Coffee republic and cakes.  
We open the latch on the gate  
Of the hole that we call our home_

.

“_Mapacha_!”

“Bless you.” Buffy said.

Dawn scowled at her. “No! It’s this word: _mapacha_, M-A-P-A-C-H-A. It keeps coming up and I have no idea what it means.” Dawn was looking frazzled, and stood between various piles of open books. Knowing better than to get in the way, Buffy was curled up in the blue sofa of their living room, trying to read a novel. Andrew was in the opposite corner, _researching_ on a laptop. Buffy bet he was playing solitaire.

“Have you tried _Google_?” Buffy asked. “It’s pretty good.”

Dawn glared at her again. “Buffy. If it’s some sort of demon language, it’s not gonna be –”

“It means ‘twins’,” Andrew called from his seat, cutting Dawn off. “It’s Swahili. Got a singular of just _pacha_, spelt the same.” Dawn looked resentful for a moment, and then grinned:

“That makes so much sense! That’s why…. OK, Andy, start cross-referencing that with everything else. I think there must be two things we’re looking for, like ‘twin’ bracelets or something.” She hopped to another space on the floor, and knelt down to the books around her. She scanned a few words, and then looked to Buffy again. “Buffy, in your vision, or whatever, were you wearing anything else, besides the bracelet? Like some other jewellery or something?”

Buffy paused, before saying, “No.” And it was the truth. She hadn’t been. It made Dawn frown, though.

“Are you sure? Nothing like a companion to the bracelet or anything? There was nothing at all?” Buffy’s hand slipped as she turned a page, giving herself a paper cut. She looked at it, and the tiny drop of blood that formed.

“Well.” Maybe it was time to come clean. Not that she had anything to hide.

“What, Buffy?”

“There was.” She licked the blood off her finger, and pressed the cut, nervously. “There was, um, the amulet. Y’know, Spike’s.”

The laptop made a beeping noise. She looked over, but Andrew had his face hidden. She looked back to Dawn, whose eyes were wide with comprehension.

“Oh,” she said.

There was silence, and Dawn continued to look at her. There was something in her widened eyes, and Buffy couldn’t take it. Putting her book down, she left the room and headed to her own.

* * *

_She squinted at the horizon, and the sun that reflected from the mountains. No matter how far she ran, they never appeared to be any closer. That didn’t matter though, since she had no idea what she would do if she reached them._

_She made herself run faster, ignoring the searing pain in the soles of her feet. The rhythm she made sounded ominous to her ears._

_Grains of dirt flew into her eye, and she slowed, blinking. As her eyes closed, the beating of her heart morphed to the sound of drums. The heat from the sun vanished, and the replacement sensation made her skin crawl. The smell of blood rose in her nostrils._

_Loneliness began to bear down on her, and she forced her eyes open, concentrating on the warmth the sun gave her skin._

_Choking back a sob, she ran on, too afraid to look back._

* * *

She was woken by Dawn, who sat on the edge of her bed. Scrubbing congealed make-up from her eyes, Buffy realised there was something in her sister’s hands:

“It’s a decaf-soy-mocha. Thought you might like it.” Buffy didn’t reply, but took the cup, marvelling at the Starbucks label.

As she sipped, she asked, “So, um, have you guys figured anything out?”

“A bit.” Dawn shrugged. “None of it makes much sense, but then its all been translated from tons of different languages, so it was never gonna agree completely.”

“Anything, y’know, more concrete than the rest?”

“Well, the bracelet, and the, um, amulet were forged by these two ‘twins’, apparently. I’m not sure if they’re, like, actual twins, but it’s something like that. Anyway, the ‘twins’ were orphans, or didn’t have a family, or something, and they forged the two pieces, basically doing a Sauron. Only, y’know, less with the hate and more with the power.”

“Huh?”

Dawn shook her head. “Sorry. They, like, put their essences into it and stuff. Made the two pieces bound to them and bound to each other: it was a whole power-essence-sharing thing.” Buffy was almost certain that that didn’t make any more sense.

“So, um, what does that mean for us, exactly?”

Dawn frowned, “I’m not sure. We’ve found pretty much everything we can from books and the Internet and stuff. Pretty much all that’s left is to, um,” she turned pink, “go to where it was found….”

“You want us to go to Africa?” Buffy was a little shocked. But then again, what else did she have to do? She didn’t have a job, and Dawn wasn’t in school. (Buffy always meant to get round to that….)

“Well, y’know, it’s a possibility.” Dawn seemed to be warming up to the idea. “It would be really cool, seeing the actual dig and stuff. And there’s always the added bonus of winter sun!” Buffy just looked at her, causing her smile to fade. “Anyway, before that, there’s some other stuff that we need to talk about, stuff that’s come up.” She suddenly looked very uncomfortable. “You’re gonna have to tell me about the, um, the amulet. There’s some stuff…. I need to know what, um, Angel told you, ‘cause there’s something…. It’s just….”

Dawn stopped then, looking at her. The look that had been on her face earlier was back. “Get some more sleep, and then we can go out for dinner or something.” She smiled weakly. “Gotta spend Giles’ money somehow, right?”

Buffy put the empty cup on the side-table. Dawn began to leave, and she called after her:

“Thanks, Dawn. Y’know, for the coffee and stuff.” Dawn smiled again, and left the room.

* * *

_The plain stretched out in front of her. In the moonlight it was grey, at contrast to the night sky, and patches of white shone where the light hit sand. There were mountains in the distance, she knew, and they were her destination. She had plenty of time to reach them._

_A scorpion scuttled by her feet, and she kicked it, watching its path in cruel fascination._

_The first rays of dawn glinted off its shell._

_As the sunlight touched her skin, she felt something. Involuntarily, she checked whether the scorpion was alive. It was, and she felt relieved._

_Disgusted with herself, she searched for some shade. There was little to be found, but a tree offered some cover. She lay down to sleep._

_Before her eyes closed, she marvelled at the beauty of the morning sky._

* * *

Buffy wondered what it was that Dawn had to tell her. First of all, she’d been plied with evil-corporation-coffee, and now she was eating in an Italian restaurant that had run out of anchovies, without Dawn complaining. It was quite a nice restaurant, actually, even if it was (from what Buffy could tell) just one step up from Pizza Hut. It had a relaxed atmosphere, which she was glad of, since she had been in no mood to dress up.

She was still tired though, and the food wasn’t helping. She had a feeling that she was going to fall asleep at the table, face landing in the remains of her cheesecake and arm knocking over the vase, spilling water everywhere. Even if she did, she was pretty sure she wouldn’t get any actual sleep. It would be stolen by another dream, who knew what about…?

A shriek from a party of pre-teens put her back on alert. Dawn and Andrew were looking serious, sitting together on the other side of the table. Scraping crumbs off her plate, she asked:

“So, um, what did you guys wanna know?” They looked at each other, and Dawn fiddled with her hands. It was Andrew who spoke.

“We were just wondering what Angel actually said to you, about the amulet, when he gave it to you.” She cast her mind back, trying to remember his brief appearance. She remembered kissing him, though not the reason why. And what had he said, exactly?

“He said that it had to be worn by a vampire with a soul. No, wait, _other than human_.” She kept her voice as neutral as she could. “And there was something about cleaning…cleansing. Other than that, not much. But there was a whole file of papers.”

Dawn shook her head, “The papers didn’t say anything about the amulet. No one knew anything about it, until you,” she closed her eyes briefly, “until you explained what happened.”

“But…he’d done research. There was translation and stuff.”

“None of it was in the file.” Dawn looked at her seriously. “Buffy. The amulet’s pretty well documented. There’s no actual pictures of it or anything, but it’s pretty clear what’s being talked about, when you get round a couple of things. It’s never mentioned on its own, though, it’s _always_ mentioned with the gauntlet. And, Buffy, one thing that’s said is how you’re s’posed to use them.”

“And?” Buffy had a sinking feeling, and was pretty sure she’d lost all neutrality.

“The amulet, it was never meant to be used on its own. Pretty much all the books say that if it is, either it or the gauntlet, weird stuff happens. Stuff that was never meant to. The two things are a matched pair, and if you use them separately then all the power in them’s unbalanced. It.” Dawn swallowed. “It backfires on the user.”

For a moment, Buffy couldn’t speak.

“Angel couldn’t…he didn’t know.”

“If he did research,” Andrew said quietly, “then he knew.”

“No.” She shook her head. “He couldn’t have. He…he wanted to use it himself. He wouldn’t have wanted to use it if he knew.”

“But, you told him he wasn’t. Going to,” Dawn replied.

“But he didn’t know that I was gonna do that.”

“But he knows _you_. He would’ve known it ‘wasn’t his fight’.”

“But….”

“Buffy, anyone would’ve known.” Dawn was getting exasperated. “First of all, he hadn’t fought with you in about four years, and second, both of you are all sickening and ‘oh no, I can’t _risk_ you’, which means you probably aren’t _gonna_ fight with each other in a very long time.”

“But he couldn’t have known that there was someone else applicable. He couldn’t have known about…Spike until he got to Sunnydale.”

“He knew about the First, though.” Andrew wasn’t looking at her. “If he knew about that, he could have known about a lot of things.”

“No,” Buffy said, putting her fork down with a little more force than she intended. “I know you don’t like Angel, Dawn, and I know that you’ve told Andrew your opinion of him, but he _wouldn’t do that_. Even if he didn’t actually want to be in the fight, he wouldn’t…_kill_…Spike that way. He would do it himself.” She looked down at her hands, blinking her eyes into submission.

During the silence, a waitress appeared, clearing their plates and placing the check on the table. Buffy got out her ‘expenses’ credit card, while Dawn spoke again:

“Maybe. But he still left out a load of information. And he’s still working for Wolfram and Hart.”

“I’m not getting into this with you again, Dawn.” She tried to shoot a warning look at her sister, but it didn’t seem to have any effect. “Look, maybe there’s two amulets, and everything’s just a misunderstanding.” It was grasping at straws, but it made more sense.

“Where’s the other one, then?”

“I dunno…still in Africa, near where the bracelet –”

“Gauntlet.”

“Gauntlet was found.”

“Don’t you think they would’ve found it?”

“They might not have.”

“It’s still a bit unlikely…” Andrew started.

“OK!” She was getting angry again. “ _We’ll_ go find it. And then you can stop going at Angel all the time!”

“Fine!”

“Fine!”

They hastily left the restaurant.

Walking home, Buffy headed out in front, ignoring Dawn and Andrew and their whispered conversation. She climbed the stairs to their flat quickly, and headed straight to bed, her fatigue having come back with full force.

* * *

_She crouched amongst the brush, trying to keep her footing on the sandy soil. The sun was setting behind her._

_The slightest rustle alerted her to their presence. They came closer, and there was nothing she could do but face them. Fluidly, she rose to her feet…_

_…and came face to face with herself._

.

_Protect me from what I want.  
Protect me.  
Protect me.  
-Placebo, Protect Me from What I Want_


	5. Darkshines

_Passing by, you light up my darkest skies.  
You'll take only seconds to draw me in.  
So, be mine, and your innocence  
I will consume._

.

Now this was more like it.

Looking into the warm night, she felt refreshed for the first time in months. She ran her fingertips through her hair, concentrating on the feeling that was returning to them. She began to walk down the aeroplane’s stairs, and, with each step, more of the humidity in the air hit her skin. It was a welcome change. When she reached the ground, she closed her eyes, and listened to the drone of the plane. Beneath it, she could hear the chirrup of cicadas.

Basking in the heat, she turned back to Dawn and Andrew, who were still struggling down the aeroplane’s steps. Dawn looked happy enough, despite her poor aeroplane-complexion. Andrew was having trouble with his bag, causing them both to have to stop every few seconds. After a short time, they finally reached the ground, and headed over to Buffy. Up close, she could see the weariness in their faces, which caused her own smile to drop slightly.

Together, they entered the terminal, where most of the signs were in English. Dawn frowned, and complained about ‘cultural suppression’. Buffy didn’t respond, but was silently thankful. She didn’t want to have to ask someone where to go, and no doubt embarrass herself in the process.

Their journey through the airport wasn’t completely straightforward, however. At passport control, Buffy found herself held back while the guy behind the counter checked through all her stamps.

“You have been travelling.” The accent made it hard to tell, but Buffy was pretty sure the guy was being sarcastic.

“Yeah.” She smiled at him, trying to exude charm. “It’s no problem, though, right?” He checked over her papers one more time, and then handed them back to her.

“Welcome to Uganda.” He smiled.

“Thanks,” she replied, and walked on.

A while later, they headed out into the night again, where a taxi from their hotel was waiting, driver leaning on the bonnet. Buffy began to speak, but was ignored. The driver crammed their bags into the back without a word and opened the doors, a scowl on his face the whole time. Biting her lip, she got into the front seat.

No one spoke during the journey. Exhaustion began to creep up on Buffy, and the only thing that prevented her from falling asleep was the quiet, threatening music that came from the radio.

By the time they reached the hotel, her eyes would not stay fully open. She dragged herself out of the taxi, following Dawn and Andrew, and the driver dumped their bags next to them. He was still scowling. She tried to calculate a tip in her head, and cursed the fact that the hotel had paid for the actual journey, leaving her with no ten percent to fall back on.

Her problem was solved, however, as the guy abruptly got back into the car and drove away, his music noticeably louder.

She blinked several times, still holding her purse in one hand. Fatigue caused a couple of tears to form without reason. She blinked them away, and picked up her bag.

Dawn and Andrew did the same, and they headed into the hotel. Buffy checked them in, without really listening to a word the receptionist said. At last, she was given their keys.

Buffy let Dawn use the bathroom first, and said goodnight to Andrew through their interconnecting door. Coming to the decision that she was too tired to care about hygiene, she changed and went straight to sleep.

* * *

_She stared into the fire, fighting back tears in her eyes. As the sun fell, it seemed to glow brighter, though at its core she could still see something dark._

_The heat from the fire passed into the manacles around her wrists, and they began to warm. As she burned, she moved backwards, as far as she could, towards the open desert. Her wrists were burnt, but were no longer being heated. The pain was bearable._

_From her new vantage point, she could see the creature. It stood on the other side of the fire, chained as she was, and no doubt welcoming the falling night. She curled her lip, forgetting her pain in favour of disgust._

_Somewhere to her right, the way of the set sun, drums began to sound._

_The beats seemed to approach her, rising in volume with each one played. They pounded through her, and churned her stomach into nausea. She shook, violently._

_Something inside her burned white hot. And then it cooled._

_Thick cold oozed through her veins, and instilled itself throughout her body. Her muscles felt fluid now, and her bones like cold metal. She opened her eyes, and saw with new acuity._

_Across the dying fire, the creature still stood, changed as she was, and now evoking no emotion._

_Effortlessly, she snapped the chains that bound her, and looked out into the night._

* * *

Buffy awoke, unrested.

Sitting up, she looked blearily into the hotel room. The light, coming in through the window, seared the sleep from her eyes. Screwing them closed with pain, she fumbled at her blankets, and came into contact with a sheet of paper. She blinked her eyes open and tried to focus, turning her back to the window. The paper was a note, which read:

_Gone to breakfast. Tried to wake you, but you sleep like a rock. Sorry._

_D&amp;A_

_And yeah, we could’ve tried harder, but we’re late anyway._

She got out of bed, scrunching up the note, and winced as she stepped on her belt buckle. She sighed.

It had only just started, but she had a feeling that the day was going to remind her of old times. She’d already met all the requirements: no sleep (none that mattered, anyway), no food, and, finally, some physical injury. With her luck, Giles’ contact was going to be a demon.

Wrenching open her suitcase, she found some clothes and headed for the bathroom.

* * *

The heat was starting to annoy her, but she convinced herself that it was just that she had spent too long in the cold.

She was following Dawn and Andrew, lagging behind. They seemed to be having the time of their lives, talking to people on the street and looking at street names. For some reason, they just weren’t exuding the tourist-vibe that she was.

It wasn’t fair. She was the one who’d spent months backpacking. She was the one with travel-experience, even if she did spend more time on the trail than in cities. She was supposed to be the one who revelled in the _foreignness_ of it all. She was supposed to be the one who fit in.

She couldn’t help but feel relieved when they came off the street, having found where they were looking for.

The three of them stood for a few moments outside an apartment, before the door opened. The man who opened the door to them looked about fifty, with a receding hairline. The wire glasses on his nose made her immediately think of an African Giles, although this man had a much rounder face.

“Mr. Mamdani?” Dawn asked, looking at the paper in her hands for what had to be the fiftieth time that day.

“Hello! You must be Rupert’s charge,” he said, in a lilting accent. He shook her hand vigorously, and Dawn blushed.

“Oh, no! I’m her sister, Dawn.”

“Well, Dawn, I am equally pleased to meet with you.” He moved out of the way, and held his hand open to the apartment. Dawn entered, and Andrew followed. With a little trepidation, Buffy also entered, and shivered as she felt Mr. Mamdani’s scrutiny on the back of her neck.

The apartment (it felt good not to have to call it a ‘flat’) was relatively well sized, and the main room consisted of a brown sofa and armchair, a wooden coffee table and a large bookshelf, all of which sat on a tiled floor. The walls were white, but mostly covered in art. She wasn’t quite sure whether it was tribal or demonic, but thought it might be impolite to ask.

A fly’s hum cut through the silence, and, looking up, she could see it, buzzing around a ceiling fan. Frowning a little, she looked back down again, coming face to face with Mr. Mamdani. She blushed, and tried to apologise:

“I like your, um, art, Mr. Mandali.” He smiled, though at her side Dawn hissed.

“Mamdani,” he replied. “But do not worry yourself with that. You may call me Samuel.”

“Oh, right. I’m Buffy.” She supposed this was the part where she was meant to put her hand out, so she did. Smiling again, he shook it, and showed the same vigour he had earlier.

“I have heard a great deal about you.” He looked at her, and his dark eyes glinted behind his glasses. He then drew back, continuing, “As I have your sister. But tell me, who is this young man?” He looked at Andrew, who seemed unwilling to meet his gaze.

“Oh, he’s Andrew. He’s…”

“A _friend_.”

“…A friend.” They said the words at the same time, and Buffy scowled at her sister. Dawn looked back, a little startled, mouthing “sorry”.

Chuckling, Samuel said, “I see.” Andrew blushed. After looking at him for a moment, Samuel continued, holding an arm to the sofa, “do, please, be seated. I shall prepare some tea for us.”

The three of them moved to the sofa, which, Buffy noted, was worn, but otherwise in immaculate condition. A short while later, Samuel returned with the tea: a white set with green detail on the rims. Buffy found it ironic that, for all the talk she’d heard about the English and their tea, the first actual ‘set’ she’d seen was in a different continent.

“Rupert gave this set to me as a wedding gift,” Samuel said, catching her eye. He placed the tray on the coffee table and took a seat in the armchair, smiling wistfully. “I believe that he meant it to be a joke. I have come to value it very much, however.”

Buffy blinked. She hadn’t even been aware that she’d been looking at it.

When he had poured out the tea, Samuel began to speak again.

“So. Rupert has told me that you are interested in an artefact.”

“Yeah,” Dawn replied, sipping her tea. “Some archaeologists found this gauntlet on a dig near, um, Mityana, is it? It’s kinda near some little mountains.”

“Mityana is correct. What do you mean, precisely, by the word ‘gauntlet’?”

“Um, it’s kinda like a chunky bracelet? It’s gold, with these diamond…. I have a picture, actually. Just a sec.” Dawn dug around in her bag, pulled out a printout of her photos, and passed it to Samuel.

“Thank you. This looks familiar. Is it documented?”

“Yeah, actually. It comes with, like, an amulet. I think they’re referred to as ‘The Mapacha’, or something.”

“Ah, the Mapacha. I believe that I own a book….” He stood up, and went over to the bookshelf, running a finger along the various leather spines. On the third shelf, he found the book he was looking for and brought it back over to the table.

He flicked it open, and read a little. Over her teacup, Buffy looked at the pages, taking in the illustrations. Her stomach gave a jolt as she recognised the amulet.

It looked like her gut agreed with Dawn and Andrew. Wasn’t that nice.

There was no way she could accept it, though. It was impossible for the two amulets to be the same. If they were, she couldn’t trust Angel anymore, and if she couldn’t do that….

Trusting Angel was something she did implicitly; it was possibly the last constant she had to make up her life. All the other ones had been taken away from her, over the years. She knew that she could make new ones, and she knew that she should. She just wasn’t sure if she had the energy or strength to do so. She was too tired to give up on her old life and start over. Again.

Besides, there were only so many people that she trusted, and if Angel could no longer be one of them the number would be very small indeed.

“Yeah,” Buffy said, growing a little bitter. “So, we think we might to be able to find the necklace-thing near where the bracelet-thing was found.” Dawn scowled at her. Samuel seemed to notice, but didn’t make any comment.

“I understand.” He looked like he wanted to ask a question, but then continued, “I can take you there tomorrow. If you meet me here after your lunch, we can take my car as far as Mityana, and then we may have to walk. I will find out where the site is, and obtain permission for us to visit.”

Buffy finished her tea, and placed the cup on the table. Eyeing her, Samuel said, “Until then, I bid you to enjoy Kampala.”

They finished, and began to leave, thanking Samuel for the tea. After Dawn and Andrew had exited, Samuel held Buffy back.

“I should ask you what it is you expect to find.” She took a moment to comprehend, and when she did, she was still confused.

“The amulet. Y’know, the one we’re looking for.”

“Why?”

“Because that’s where….” He cut her off, gently.

“Rupert has told me about what occurred at the Hellmouth.” Buffy looked at him defiantly.

“That was a different one.”

“What will you do if it was not?” She didn’t reply, and moved past him, towards the door. As she left, he said, “As we search for an answer to one question, we inescapably uncover more.” She didn’t turn around. “It is the answers to these questions which generally cause distress, and so I should ask you to be careful.”

“Thank you, Mr. Mamdani,” Buffy said, closing the door behind her.

.

_Making my heart feel sore,  
‘Cause it’s good.  
-Muse, Darkshines_


	6. 2+2=5

_Are you such a dreamer  
To put the world to rights?  
I stay home forever,  
Where two and two always makes five._

.

_She ran, ever faster as the sun set. The wind rushed past her ears and she could hear nothing else._

_A stone slid under he foot. Her footing failed, and she fell to the ground, feeling pain and tasting blood._

_She stood up, shakily, and brushed a hand across her bruised lips. They were slick with blood: she’d bitten her tongue._

_In front of her was a rock, which glistened with spots of her blood._

Buffy blinked, and a tree flew past her vision. She was in a car, a jeep – no, a _Land Rover_, which Samuel had hired to take them to the dig.

She shook her head, uncertain that all the details had come back to her. Why were they going to the dig, again? She couldn’t quite remember. It was to find an amulet or something, but she swore that they had already found it.

In the instant that the memory came back, she wondered at her own stupidity. Then, as it developed, she conceded to her belief that there would be another one, waiting for them. She felt secure and human once again.

She looked to her side: Samuel was driving. It struck her that she should find it odd, and amusing, that Samuel would drive a car like this: the same way that she had when Giles first showed her his convertible. For some reason she didn’t, and she couldn’t seem to drag the humour out of herself either.

Looking out of the window again, she concentrated on the road signs and the tarmac, although they seemed to fade constantly from her view. When she looked at her hand, resting on the door, it seemed lifeless and detached. It was too pale, too clean and held nothing of the power that it should.

Holding her hand to the light, it was at once cast into shadow as the sun went behind a cloud.

_Her hand. It was odd really. It had seen so much blood, yet there was still no mark on it, no stain or scar. Others should be able to see what she had done. She hadn’t been conscious of it, of course, as it had happened long ago. But that didn’t matter._

_She had run, hoping to escape her atrocities. It surprised her though, how far her reach must have been. She knew now, as she had weeks ago, that it was futile to try and escape. She still ran, however, chased by the other, who pushed her further and further on. She didn’t know why, but guessed it was the other’s guilt. She was not blameless in all this._

The bright sunlight came as a surprise. Buffy put her hands over her eyes, trying to reduce it as they adjusted.

She could still feel a darkness, edging her peripheral vision. It frightened her.

* * *

They parked the car just after midday, and had lunch on a picnic blanket not very far from the road. Buffy was a little disappointed to find that it consisted of nothing more than sandwiches (filled with cheese and some brown stuff she didn’t recognise) and tea from a flask. She ate it without complaining, however, and sat a little away from the others, tuning out the conversation.

After lunch came the walk to the dig site, which, according to Samuel, was on a plateau in the mountains. It was a long walk, and Buffy felt her mind soon go elsewhere.

An urge to run grew constantly within her, and the surrounding scenery seemed to speed up in response. Several times, she found herself walking faster than the group and having to be called back by an irritated Dawn.

“Buffy! You don’t even know where we’re going!”

But she felt as if she did.

The dig, when they reached it, was not as Buffy had expected. A small cluster of tents littered the area, which was oddly very sandy. A middle-aged man caught sight of them and came over, wiping his hands on his trousers. His greying hair was mostly covered by a hat, which was wide rimmed and brown, giving Buffy the impression that he was trying to look like Indiana Jones. It didn’t quite work. Even though his white shirt was rolled up above the arms (instead of being worn normally), it was far too clean cut, and failed to hide the fact that he wasn’t in great shape.

“Hello!” He sounded friendly enough, she supposed. “Mr. Mamdani?” Samuel shook the man’s hand.

“It is nice to meet you.”

“Yes, you too. I’m Richard Pumney, Professor of Prehistoric Africa at UCL.”

“I am Samuel Mamdani, as you are aware. These are Miss Buffy and Miss Dawn Summers, and their companion Mr. Andrew…”

“Wells,” Andrew supplied.

“Yes, well, it is lovely to meet you all.” He seemed at a loss for a moment. Finally, he took an apologetic stance. “I’m sorry that I can’t stay with you, but I believe that there is something requiring my attention in Tent Four. Please feel free to wander round, though.” He indicated the tents behind him, and then wiped his brow on the back of his hand. He was definitely a British guy in a place to hot for him: clamminess was in no way similar to rugged Indiana-sweat. “Everyone knows you’re coming, and should be as helpful as possible.” He finished in a slight rush, and left with a nod.

“So,” Dawn said. “How long are we gonna wait before we decide that there isn’t an amulet waiting for us?” She turned to Buffy with a hard, sarcastic look on her face.

“I…I don’t know, Dawn!” The amulet had gone out of her mind. The place was familiar, though wrong, and it was giving her a headache. The Indiana-wannabe had distracted her, but she was feeling it again now, strongly. “You’re the one who wanted to come, so enjoy yourself!”

She thought Dawn was going to say something in response, but she couldn’t bear to hear it, wanting silence. She walked away, towards the group of tents.

_She fell, sobbing, to the ground. Heat and exhaustion caused her whole body to ache: a dull, quaking pain with her head as the centre. She grasped at the surrounding sand, part of her connecting it with the plains of home, which she missed, bitterly._

_The other part of her jeered at her weakness, but it was soon smothered by fatigue._

_That night, she didn’t sleep, but instead lay, eyes closed but awake, shivering as the ground cooled._

“Buffy?”

The sound of her name startled her. She jumped, and turned around. There was a guy standing there, with pinched, weasel-like features unsoftened by the sun, who, after a couple of seconds, she realised she recognised.

“Oh, hi! It’s Dom, right? From the museum?”

“Dave, but yeah.”

“Oh, sorry! Dave. I’ll try and remember that. And you had a friend called Alex, right?”

“Right.”

“Is he, um, here too?” She hoped he wasn’t. Although her conversation with him didn’t quite reach the top ten of her worst, it got pretty close.

“No.” Dave chuckled at her (probably) obvious relief. “No, he had to stay in London and try and get some work done.”

“Oh,” she replied. “That’s a shame.” Dave shrugged.

“He’s had four months to do it.”

Not wanting to say “Oh” again, Buffy lapsed into silence. Dave didn’t look like he was going away, so she assumed he had something to say. After a couple of minutes, he spoke:

“It’s really quite nice here, isn’t it?” She looked around, slightly startled. They were standing on the opposite side of the tents to where she had come from, towards the edge of the plateau. And, although it worried her that she had kept walking while she had the vision, she _was_ impressed by the view.

“Yeah. It’s beautiful.”

Dave nodded. “I’ve always loved Africa. When I was little, I used to beg my mum to take me on safari. She did, once, when I was ten, but that was it.”

“I used to want to be an figure skater,” Buffy said without realising. “I had lessons, and Dad used to take me and Dawn to a _Disney on Ice_ show every Christmas, while Mom did our Christmas shopping. Dawn would always complain, but…. I think my mom was a bit disappointed when I gave it up.”

“Ah. You see, my mum didn’t want to encourage me. She and my step-dad were keen on me being a dentist, like him.”

“Sounds…fun.” He smiled.

“Oh yeah. Luckily, though, it turned out I was bloody awful at science, well, anything biology-related anyway, so, after school, my mum let me do my own thing. It didn’t half piss Jeremy off – my step-dad.” He grinned, and Buffy found herself smiling too. “They never said anything, but I think my dad was into the same sort of stuff…well, old stuff of some description, anyway.”

“I guess you don’t get on with your step-dad, huh?”

“Not really. He’s not violent or anything, but we disagree about pretty much everything there is to have an opinion on. I think it gets on his nerves that I’m the “spitting image” of my father – this is according to my mum, who got slightly pissed at Christmas and told me.”

“What…what happened with your dad?”

“Died. In a car crash when I was about two.”

“Oh! I’m so sorry. That must have been horrible.”

“Nah, not really. I don’t remember him at all.”

“Still…”

“It doesn’t matter.” He was silent for a couple of seconds, and then said, “Anyway, you don’t wanna hear my life story. I came over here to see if you were all right, since Dawn and Andrew were a bit worried and reckoned you’d give _them_ a complete bollocking.”

“What?” Buffy turned red. “They shouldn’t have asked you to come, I mean, we barely know you.”

“Ah. But you would’ve bollocked them.”

“I don’t even know what that means!” Dave laughed. Buffy tried to feel insulted, but there was nothing mocking about it, and for a moment she found herself laughing with him.

“Still,” he continued, after he had stopped laughing. “I can understand if you want to think. The air up here’s fantastic: clears your head right out.”

“I think my problem’s more that I think too much…or something.”

“Really? I never seem to have the time to think. That’s partly why I love it here, away from all the noise of the city. I mean, think about that village over there.” He pointed to another side of the plateau, far away from the dig site, where a group of dwellings were. “They’ve lived round here for centuries, their lives only changing when we and our ways get a hand on them. If we lived like they did, we’d get bored after about a week and a half, but they seem perfectly content.” He sighed. “That’s what I call life, but I’m not sure if I’m ever gonna get it.” He looked back at her, and seemed slightly startled, as if he’d forgotten she was there.

She turned away, hoping to make him feel better, and looked at the village. After a couple of seconds, the light falling on it turned to dark, and the western materials on the huts disappeared, replacing themselves with skins. This view mixed with reality, and the pictures phased in and out of each other. She blinked, trying to stop it, but it continued.

“I’ll see you around, Dave.” She heard herself say, dazedly.

“Yeah.” He sounded confused. “Yeah. I…I, er, should be getting back anyway. Plum’ll be wondering where I’ve gone.” She didn’t know who ‘Plum’ was, but didn’t ask, and began to walk towards the village, succumbing to the change in light.

_She stood away from the village, looking at it by the light of the moon. She should be wanting to destroy it, to knock the primitive houses to the ground. Somehow, she couldn’t summon the rage from inside herself. It was tempered always by that other force, the one that took over in the daylight, but was silent in the dark._

_Not that the dark let her be as she was. In the dark she was nothing, and felt no love, no hate and no joy. The village was safe from her, for the time being._

_She had no cause to run further. The other would not chase her. This would be her resting place._

_Some part of her felt pain, that she would not be able to live with the people, but she could not understand it, since, before, they would have been dead by now._

She now stood at the edge of the village, and had caught the attention of a number of the children. An older woman held them back, scolding them in a language that Buffy didn’t recognise.

She took in the scene, and the rest of the surroundings. A fire was being built in the centre of the village, presumably in preparation for the coming night, and men and women carried out various other tasks.

The village was set against an outcrop of mountain: craggy rocks dotted with coarse bushes. The dark entrance of a cave stood out in the sunlight, and drew her attention. Purposefully, she began to walk towards it, ignoring the others in the village.

She approached the entrance, its blackness consuming her sight. A man ran in front of her.

“_Ymirira! Toyenza coyengara! Erio mtuwana!_”

“You’d be surprised how well I cope with danger,” she replied unconsciously, brushing past him. “Besides, I’m not asking for permission.”

The man continued to yell, but she no longer heard him. In her mind, it was dark, and as she entered the cave, the dark became consuming.

.

_ Oh go and tell the king that the sky is falling in  
When it's not  
But it's not  
But it's not  
Maybe not  
Maybe not_  
-Radiohead, 2+2=5


	7. Why I Chose to Never Grow

_Does he know all my woes?  
He watches from above.  
In his time; a sickly mind.  
And sick I understand._

.

_Her hand tore through the flesh of the woman’s stomach. Gore flooded out, and the body collapsed from its new imbalance. The woman didn’t make a sound as she died, but blood frothed at her lips._

_With a scarce glance at the corpse, she held her hand to the sun. The light made patterns in the blood. She grinned, before licking it off._

_From nowhere came the sound of drums. She couldn’t move. The sun’s heat faded quickly from her skin, and she was left frozen._

_Three men appeared in her line of vision, wearing robes and carrying staffs. With a few words, the three raised their staffs and struck them on the desert floor. The woman’s body disappeared. More words, and a shockwave spread across the desert, flattening the sand in a wide circle under her feet. Still she could not move._

_As the day passed, a fire was built in front of her. It was completed in the late afternoon. As it was lit, chains appeared around her wrist and sensation returned to her._

_A girl was brought to the other side of the fire. She too was chained._

_The sun set, and drums began to sound once more. She closed her eyes to the discord they created._

She looked around. She couldn’t see anything, but there was something in the dark.

“Who’s there?” Her voice echoed, and disturbed the stale air.

A deep chuckle behind her made her jump. She span, and saw green, glowing eyes.

_The pain was blinding – literally. She couldn’t see anything but bright white light. An abstract part of her found that amusing._

_Except it wasn’t complete. As usual she was being cheated: she could just make out two spots of green in the light, observing her coldly as the pain subsided to newly growing guilt._

“What the hell is going on?” She hated the weakness in her voice.

The creature didn’t respond.

“Answer me!”

“Why are you here, Slayer?” The voice was dark and sardonic.

“I don’t know! You’re the one who’s s’posed to be explaining things.”

_“Why would I do that?”_

_She glared at her twin. He wore the mask of the demon, but his spirit was the same as hers now._

_“You _cannot_ say that you’re unaffected.” She was trying hard to keep her rage in check. In the night she had little control._

_“Perhaps not. But I refuse to give myself over to another power.”_

_“The Earth is not a power! She is…” She hesitated, struggling to explain something she had never put into words._

_“Your people did this to me. Why would I put myself under another of your agents?”_

_“The Earth is _not_ my people’s agent, even if they’re still my people. We – all of us – are the Earth’s.” His bitterness was frustrating._

_“I am no one’s.” She snorted._

_“If you believe that, you are a fool.” He tried to respond, but she interrupted. “Look. We are unique. But we are not right.” Again, he tried to argue. “No. If you were yourself, why did you flee from me?” She shook her head. “We were chained to the Earth, but by breaking those chains we changed. We are no longer of this world.”_

_“You said that the Earth owned everything.” He smiled._

_She fumed. “We are lost, then. The truth is that we must give ourselves over completely to the Earth.” He laughed at her._

She was disorientated for a moment. The dark didn’t help. Still, she had to figure this out at some point.

“The demon’s you, isn’t it?” She got no response. “That means that…you knew the first Slayer.”

“I was a part of her. As I was a part of you.” She reeled momentarily.

“You’re the demon…. You’re the one the Shadow Men used.”

“Yes. But not the one you are accustomed with.”

_Blackness. In her throat, in her eyes, in her ears. Oily, vile and penetrating._

Her eyes were closed, and she muttered, “A flashback of my own. I can deal with that.” She squeezed her eyes shut one more time and then looked into the dark again. If she concentrated (it was difficult, but she was trying), she could just make out a foreboding outline. “So, what? The Shadow Men took a bit of you, forced it on a girl and got a Slayer, –”

“No.”

“Huh?” What?

“They did not create the Slayer.”

“No, they did!” She’d almost relived it. “Because they were useless, pathetic cowards and needed someone to fight for them!”

“They created a creature with the strength of a demon. Not a Slayer.”

_She was alone in the desert, and rage was running through her fingers. She sensed her prey on the wind, and ran in its direction._

_A minute later, a corpse lay at her feet. Its eyes were gouged out and its neck was broken._

_There was movement behind her. She turned around._

_“Sineya! Why are you away from the village?” She didn’t understand the noises made at her. The creature approached. She attacked, and left another body dead in the sand._

“Wait.” She pressed her palms into her eyes. “She killed a _human_?” She looked up, disbelievingly, towards where she assumed the demon was.

“It was her initial purpose for running; before she realised that she needed me.”

“Why?” The demon laughed at her. “What?”

“Idiot girl.”

“_What_.”

“The Slayer and I were the same being in two different incarnations. Are you not aware of this?”

She wanted to say ‘No’, but that would be a lie. She’d been made all too aware. The demon continued:

“The Slayer knew that she could not reverse what the Shadow Men had done. She wished to lessen its power.”

“By using the Earth.” See. She could remember visions.

“Yes.”

“Did it work?”

_She felt calmer than she ever had. The desire to fight was still there, but it was a desire to protect, not to kill._

_She looked up to the night sky; now able to appreciate it’s beauty. Unconsciously, she grinned._

She winced slightly. The continuous visions were getting kind of painful. “I guess it did then.” The demon didn’t sound like it was going to say anything. “So, what, the Slayer created herself?”

“Yes. In essence.”

“Y’know, I’m just saying, but that doesn’t sound like the first Slayer I know.”

“Are you certain that you summoned the Slayer as she became?”

“Uh.” Had she? “No, I guess.” This was so confusing. How did he know she’d summoned her, anyway? “So. The Slayer made herself, using the Earth. And you had to be there because you’re the same being.” She nodded to herself. “OK, I get that. But if you’re the same as the Slayer, why the hell are you sitting in a cave instead of actually doing something Slayer-y?”

“I am not a Slayer. I am the same being as the Slayer. I hold parts of the same two spirits, but I am not the same. Sineya held the violence of our natures. I hold the opposite.”

“What? Like love and stuff?” The demon didn’t respond. She laughed, glad for any humour she could find. “Oh my God! You’re like a hippy-demon or something!”

“Connecting ourselves to the Earth meant that the alien part of our new natures was lessened.” He sounded slightly embarrassed.

She continued to laugh. “You mean the Slayer became weaker and you became less loved up.”

“Silence!” She shut up. “The Slayer became weaker, yes. Her demonic strength was subdued and her will to fight was that of a human: to protect her family. Her connection to the Earth connected her to all humans on this Earth, and made them as her family. This gave her the will to protect all humans.”

“And what about you?”

“The human will to create and adore was lessened in me. The demon I was before had no such urge, and so I felt little.”

“OK. So you were feeling the apathy, and went off to live in this little cave. What about –”

“No.” He answered quickly.

“No?”

He sounded reluctant, “I did not return here for many years.”

_She watched the body burn on the fire, and ignored the flames as they leaped close to her own skin. The body, embalmed like those in the North, was consumed quite quickly._

_She had died among foreigners. It was a distressing thought. They had been her friends, however, not strangers._

_But she had died so very far from home._

_Still, they had returned now. There was nothing left to do._

“OK, so you started the cave living after the first Slayer died,” she continued, rubbing her temples. She wanted to get this over and done with. “Never mind the new Slayer could kinda use your help.”

“I do not have to explain myself to you, Slayer.”

“Uh, coming from a long legacy of girls who fought _alone_, I think you do.” She crossed her arms defiantly. Headaches were secondary to looking authoritative.

“I do not answer to you.” He sounded like he was growing angry, but she refused to back down.

“The way I see it, you’re part of the Slayer. OK, you’re a demon or whatever, but it sounds to me that you made the first Slayer live longer – most of us don’t get the oh-so-mysterious ‘many years’. And so, if you did make her live longer, you pretty much condemned all of us other Slayers who weren’t her by sitting in this cave.”

“I am not a tool for the Slayer to use.”

“Fine. You’re a warrior to fight at her side. The point is, I’ve done a lot of fighting and it might have been nice to have a big, ugly demon fighting with me.”

“I would not have fought with you.”

“Excuse me?” She was going to kill this guy in a minute. Whether he had answers or not. “Why the hell not?”

“You are not the current Slayer.” She blinked.

“OK. I might be able to see very much right now, but last time I checked I was pretty current.”

“The Slayer line passed from you at the moment of your first death. I was part of that lineage, and so you can make no claim to me.” He sounded indignant, and she couldn’t hold back her anger.

“Like I’d want to! All you do is sit in a cave!” He laughed, which wasn’t really the reaction she’d been looking for. “What?”

“You misunderstand. I said that you have no claim to _me_.”

“You mean I’ve got a demon of my very own somewhere.” That was an odd thought.

“Yes.” He was still laughing. “I’ve even seen him; recognised the same weaknesses that I once saw in myself.”

“Weaknesses?”

“Yes. They were not as fully developed as mine: his calling was not yet complete, despite your continuing presence. It took the merest of things to complete the process.”

Oh no. “When you say ‘process’….” This had better not be what she thought it might be.

“He would not have known it as such, of course, because that would have required explaining much more than I had a desire to. Also, it was much more entertaining…” No. This was not happening.

_So this was what a soul felt like. It was slightly different from what she’d imagined (that being a load of pain and guilt and no desires apart from to repent, or maybe do a spot of brooding). There was guilt – of course there was guilt – but other than that everything seemed to revolve around a certain Slayer, especially since she’d got back and seen her again._

_She wasn’t sure if it was a guilt thing coming into play, but it was definitely Buffy that her desires centred around: helping her, fighting with her and, God, just _her_ generally. Having a soul wasn’t that much different in that respect. It was kind of disappointing._

_Especially when her _raison d’être_ didn’t seem to do anything these days but stand around and tell her to kill people. It didn’t half make things confusing._

Coming back to reality was just a little harder than it had been before.

“You’re kidding, right?” She couldn’t get the words out in more than a whisper. “Please. Tell me you’re kidding.” There was no response.

She tried to pull herself together. It did nothing.

She put a hand to the wall for support, and her hand grazed over something with a different texture to the rest of the stone. It was a painting, maybe.

_What remained of the body lay on the sand in front of her. The immediate area was covered in blood and the remnants of organs. The smell was glorious._

She was on the ground, vomiting. Tears were in her eyes and she was shaking. She regained her feet and backed away from the sick on the floor.

“So.” Her voice was strangled. “What does the amulet have to do with all of this?” Hopefully he’d just answer the question and she could get out of there.

The demon continued as if nothing had happened, “the amulet and the gauntlet are modified versions of devices made when the Slayer and I visited what you would call Mesopotamia.” He said it dismissively, as if she should know what the hell he was talking about.

_She had learnt a lot by coming north. She’d learnt that the world was much larger than she’d known, and that life could be so much more. She’d learnt that, as part as her new power, she could talk to whomever she wanted and still be understood. And she’d learnt the folly she’d made in suppressing the demon’s power back into the Earth._

_Hope was not lost, however. With the objects she held in her hands, that power could once again be utilised. The sun-necklace would be worn by Bushku, and he would then be able to draw upon their combined powers. She would channel these powers through the bracelet, cleansing the area around them. As a result, they too would be cleansed: of their power._

_She held the necklace up for inspection. It was a powerful tool, as was the bracelet. She was glad to have them in her possession. She just prayed that she never had to use them._

“Great, scrubbing bubbles.” Her head was splitting, but she didn’t really care. “The thing is, I’m talking about this ugly-ass pendant with a massive diamond in the middle, not some clonky thing the first Slayer had.” Anger was good. She could do anger.

“The Mapacha were altered many times by a tribe who worshipped the Slayer.”

“Well, where the hell are they now?” Anger beat the alternative hands down, as long as she could hold onto it.

“They were killed several years ago by disease.”

“Right.” She nodded. “Right.” Don’t think of death. “I still don’t understand –”

_Was it wrong to feel so blissfully happy? Others were dead, and it turned her stomach to think about it, but she was alive – _they_ were alive – and the First Evil was gone. And there was nothing in the way anymore: no slayer-crap, no prophecy, no nothing._

_And they were in the _sun_, together! They weren’t speaking or anything, but that had never really been an issue with them. Besides, after the light show in the Hellmouth she felt like she was a part of him – it made speech kind of unnecessary._

_She knew now. She really knew._

_She had to tell him._

_Not now though. No matter how much the secret burned her, it wouldn’t be right. Later, when everything had settled down. She’d set something up; make it special._

_They had the time, right?_

Slowly, she opened her eyes and glared at the demon. Pain made her body taut and glazed her eyes with tears.

“You know,” she bit out, “you could just tell me instead of making with the visions.” He laughed derisively.

“I am not the one causing you to see.”

“Then who the hell _is_?” Her cry echoed around the cave. “I’m so sick of this crap! You would’ve thought I could get a break after giving seven years of my _life_ to this goddamn world, but I guess that just wasn’t good enough.” She calmed for a moment. “So. What am I s’posed to do, huh? _What_ do you want me to do? Bring Spike back from the dead? Kill the First again? Build a replacement amulet ‘cause yours got all burnt up?” She was shrieking again, and crying breathlessly. “Tell me, dammit! There’s gotta be a reason!”

For several seconds there was no sound apart from her laboured breathing.

“You are suffering the consequences of using the Mapacha incorrectly. There is no other cause.” The demon laughed. Again.

.

_Just he knows  
Strange things grow  
To please my tired mind.  
Now his eyes become my eyes.  
-Devics, Why I Chose to Never Grow_


	8. Yesterday

_Run.  
But don't be scared to look behind.  
Stop.  
Don't wait too long, make up your mind._

.

She leaned against the rock face, shivering despite the warmth that was still around. The villagers were staying away, and for that she was grateful. She didn’t want to deal with anyone or anything. She just wanted to be left alone.

She closed her eyes, blocking out the surroundings. Things still didn’t make sense.

A new sound jolted her out of her thoughts and she blinked into the sunlight. Dawn was standing in front of her.

“What’s going on, Buffy?” Buffy didn’t look round. “You disappeared earlier, and now everybody’s looking for you. I thought you’d gotten over that whole ‘walking off on your own’ thing you did when we first came to London.”

She wiped her eyes, trying to ignore what Dawn was saying. “We should be getting back to the hotel. D’you wanna go?”

“No, Buffy, I don’t wanna go. Not ‘til you tell me what’s going on.”

Sighing, Buffy got up and began to walk up the slight slope back to the dig. Dawn trotted behind her, asking what she had done and what was happening.

“Nothing, Dawn!” They had left the village behind them now, and it was still a few metres to the edge of the dig. “There is nothing wrong!” Her shout echoed back at her from somewhere, and her nose began to twitch as her eyes stung.

“Buffy….” Dawn looked sympathetic.

“No! There is nothing wrong, and there’s nothing anyone can do.” Tears were forming and she squeezed her eyes shut against them.

“Buffy, just tell me what happened!”

She started to cry. Dawn didn’t move. Buffy drew her arms around herself and continued, looking at the ground. There was at least a minute of relative silence, before:

“I’ve ruined everything.”

“What?”

“There was this plan. A whole bunch of stuff that was s’posed to happen. Well, OK, one thing. But I didn’t do it. And now everything’s different from the way it’s s’posed to be and there’s only me to blame.”

“Buffy, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Then what’s with the crying?” She brushed her hands over her eyes. Dawn raised an eyebrow at her. “It obviously does matter, so just tell me. And don’t say I can’t understand either, because I’m older than you were when you started Slaying and I know a hell of a lot more about it.”

“OK,” she said, before taking a shaky breath. “OK.” She sniffed, once, and tried to calm herself down. “It’s to do with those mappy things – the amulet and the bracelet – what are they called?”

“The Mapacha.”

“Right. It’s to do with them. And Spike, I guess.” This was going to be hard.

“I _knew_ you hadn’t grieved for him!” Buffy jumped.

“What? Oh, dammit, Dawn. Spike did what he did because….” She closed her eyes briefly. “He _died_ so we could all live, and we should be proud of him! He didn’t die so that we could mope around and not get on with our lives.” It was six months ago all over again, and she was trying to convince a half-angry, half-worried Dawn that she was OK. “But that’s not the issue here.”

“He grieved for _you_ when you died.” Dawn had never said that before. She really didn’t need to hear it. She closed her eyes again and tried to get her mind back on track, before she thought about it for too long.

“Look, Dawn, I’m trying to do the big emotional reveal here. It works a lot better without interruptions.”

“But…. OK, fine. Sorry.” Dawn looked anything but. Buffy ignored her.

“OK, so the Mapacha were made by the First Slayer and the First Demon-Helper-Guy.”

“Demon-Helper-Guy?” Buffy fumed for a moment.

“I don’t know if he has an actual title.”

“Who is he?”

“A by-product of the spell that made the Slayer.” She sighed. “He’s s’posed to fight with her, but gave up after the first one died and spent thousands of years sitting in that cave over there.” She pointed.

“Oh,” Dawn replied, looking over. “So they made the Mapacha?”

“Yeah, somewhere north of here. In a place where they have pot-mania.”

“What? Pot-mania? You don’t mean Mesopotamia, do you?”

“Yeah, probably.” She shrugged. Mangling words was nice to fall back on. She was never going to remember the actual word anyway.

“One day I’m gonna teach you English,” Dawn muttered. “Still, Mesopotamia. It explains all the Sumerian at least.”

“Yeah.” It probably did. “Anyway, they made it so they could call on all the power they gave to the Earth,” she caught Dawn’s look, “which they had connected themselves to after realising that the First Slayer was a killing machine and the First Demon-Helper-Guy was a love machine.” She blinked. “OK, that came out wrong.” Dawn giggled at her. “Anyway, so the Mapacha meant that they could take all their power back and channel it into something destructive and cleansy. After that they’d become just normal, powerless people. Well, the Slayer would, anyway. I don’t know about the demon-guy.”

“OK, that makes a kind of sense.” Dawn was frowning, obviously trying to take it all in. “But where does Spike fit in?”

“Well. You know I died that time?”

“Which one?”

“The first time.”

“Yes.” Dawn glared at her. “No thanks to you, though. You know I never knew you’d died twice ‘til I asked Giles about Faith last year?”

“Oh.” She blushed. “Sorry. It’s just you were too young at the time and then it never came up.” Dawn rolled her eyes.

“You’re the only person in the world who could say that about dying. Anyway, keep going.”

“OK. Yeah, so I died, and the Slayer line split – taking Demon-Helper-Guy with it. The thing is, I came back, so there was a Slayer _without_ a Demon-Helper-Guy.”

“No way.”

“Huh?”

“You’re not about to say what I think you’re gonna say.”

“What d’you think I’m gonna say?” It wasn’t that obvious, was it?

“There’s just no way.” Dawn seemed to be ignoring her. “Spike was evil when you met him. Cool, and wanting to save the world, but _evil_.” She shook her head a couple of times, and then refocused her eyes on Buffy, who shrugged.

“I didn’t really get that bit either. It was something to do with his soul, the actual calling process. It wasn’t instant.”

“So he wasn’t actually called until he got his soul?”

“No.” She shook her head, trying to remember. “I don’t know. The demon-guy said something about it being easy to return his soul – that his calling was almost complete, because of,” her eyes widened, “because of my ‘presence’.”

“Oh God, Buffy. That means…”

“I know, Dawn.” She shut her eyes. She really wasn’t good with these revelation-things. “I know.”

“You don’t think him being in love with you was anything –”

“No.” She replied quickly, refusing to think about it.

“You can’t know, Buffy.” Dawn looked so sincere. It got on her nerves

“I know! But how would you like it if I said to you that maybe Spike only ever liked you because of some weird connection he had with the Key?”

Dawn said nothing. Buffy rolled her eyes.

“OK. If I’d’ve said it before you felt ‘neutral’ towards him, ‘because he saved the world’, and before you hated him?”

Dawn conceded after a moment, “I’d’ve called you a bitch.”

“There you go.”

They stood in silence for a couple of seconds. A breeze blew up, and Dawn spoke again:

“We should probably find out.”

“What?” She was going cold, and it wasn’t the breeze.

“Well, you don’t want it hanging over your head, do you?”

“What the hell?” Was this her sister? “No!” Hadn’t they found out enough? “The Mapacha project is finished with, Dawn, d’you hear me? We aren’t finding out anything else. I’ve got enough stuff to deal with without you and Andrew digging up more.”

“Oh, come on! Ooh, so you and Spike were mystically connected. That must be such a burden.” Buffy could barely believe what she was hearing.

“You heartless little bitch! D’you have any idea what all this means? It means that, for the first time ever, you were right, and I can’t trust Angel! You have no idea of how much that hurts me. And you have _no idea_ of what it’s like to have to deal with the consequences of trusting him. To know that I…to know that I _betrayed_…

“I could be so happy, Dawn, did you know that? Yeah. Blissfully happy, and not feeling whatever I’m feeling now which is the complete opposite. And d’you know how I know that? Huh? I had a vision! One of those things that’ve been stealing every moment of sleep I’ve had for the past _month_! One of those that haven’t left me alone since we got _here_!

“So, yeah! Maybe I don’t want to do any more digging. _Because I can’t take anymore!_” She took a breath to start again, but choked on it, starting to cry once more.

“Oh, Buffy.” Dawn was hugging her now, and she cried into her shoulder. Grains of sand scraped her eyelids and she could smell Dawn’s sweat. She didn’t care, and just listened as Dawn tried to sooth her. “You should’ve said something. You should’ve…” She continued to cry. “Come on. We can go home tomorrow. We’ll blow some money in Oxford Street and forget all about this. Yeah?” Buffy pulled back, willing her shoulders to stop shaking and rubbing at her eyes, which just hurt them more.

She could do that. She could forget about it all. She could move on. It wasn’t impossible. Except….

“I don’t wanna go back to London, Dawn.” She sniffed, once, and wiped a fist across her nose.

“Buffy.” She looked so disappointed.

“I’m not running away, or whatever you think I’m doing, it’s just…. London is so much like _him_. And I think, if I’m going to move on, or grieve, or whatever, it needs to be somewhere that isn’t.” Dawn’s eyes were wide for a moment. Buffy stood firm.

“OK, I’m applauding your coming out of denial, but I’ve gotta say this. You’re deluding yourself if you think anyone in London sounds like Spike. He must’ve made the accent up or something, because it _does not_ exist. I dunno….” She trailed off as Buffy laughed. “What?”

“Oh, nothing. It’s just…of course he made the accent up! It’s not as if he ever spent much time around the docks!” She kept laughing. She was starting to cry again, she knew, but she was probably already enough of a wreck that it didn’t matter.

“Huh? What d’you mean?” Understanding appeared in Dawn’s eyes. “You mean Spike told you about his human life! That’s _so_ not fair! I liked him way longer than you did!” Buffy continued to laugh as Dawn made indignant noises. “When did he tell you?” Buffy shut up. It suddenly seemed very quiet.

“After Principal Wood tried to kill him.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” Dawn looked at the ground. She looked up.

It was dark now, she noticed. There was still that slight breeze and the village’s fire was crackling in the distance. There was a fire in the dig too, a smaller one, with camping tents around it. She hadn’t noticed those before.

Dawn was speaking to her.

“Huh?” she asked. Her sister rolled her eyes.

“I said, ‘if it’s not the people in London, what is it?’.”

“Oh. I don’t know.” She shrugged: this sounded so stupid now. “It’s just the place. It’s sort of monochrome, and kinda old, if you know what I mean. I think it’s the Victorian housing.”

“The Victorian housing?” Dawn stared at her. “You’re insane, Buffy, you really are. Still, I guess you _are_ the weeping widow here. Where are we going instead?”

She shrugged again. “You pick.”

“OK!” Dawn looked surprised, and then thoughtful. After a moment, her eyes lit up. “Oh, _Rome_! Let’s go to Rome! Centre of the classical world!” Buffy was not impressed. “Oh, oh, and centre of the shoe world! And the coffee world!” Now she was interested. “_Please_, let’s go to Rome. I always wanted to learn Italian.”

Why not? It could be fun.

“OK.”

It looked like they were going to Rome.

* * *

Buffy came out of her room. At first she ignored Andrew and the television, from which a lot of over-dramatic Italian was coming, mixed with sounds of what she now knew were fazers.

She wanted Dawn. She was having trouble with her book, ‘_I Tre Amici_’. It was a story about a mouse, some sort of bird and something else in a forest, and she knew that if Dawn would just read the first page to her, everything else would make sense.

“Andrew, have you seen Dawn?” Why was he in their apartment anyway? He had his own, a couple of blocks away, paid for by Giles as part of his job as a “liaison” between London and Italy. (She was pretty sure it was just to keep Andrew out of the country.)

“Didn’t she tell you? She went out. Apparently we need more pasta.”

“What, more?” Maybe it was good to have Andrew around. He wasn’t pasta-obsessed.

“Yeah. Um, Buffy.” He flicked the remote and the TV went off. “I meant to tell you something.” He came round to the back of the sofa, fiddling with his hands. “Giles called, and apparently there’s Watcher business to take care of.”

“Oh.” Wait. Giles made contact with Andrew?

“Yeah. Apparently everybody’s busy, so I need to go retrieve a Slayer. From, um, Los Angeles.”

“Oh. _Oh_.”

“Yeah.”

“Well, um, if you see Angel…well, you know where I stand at least.”

“Yeah.” He was giving her that look again. That look that meant he was running an internal monologue with her as the ‘brave and noble heroine’. It made her so angry. She wasn’t brave, or noble, and nor was she going to be able to keep back those stupid tears.

“So.” Sniff. Dammit. “When’s that?”

“Early tomorrow morning.”

“Oh. OK. Good luck then, I guess.”

“Thanks.” They stood in silence for a couple of minutes. She sniffed a couple more times.

“I’ll leave you to your show, then.”

He might have said something in response, but she didn’t listen as she went back to her room.

Closing the door, she threw _’I Tre Amici’_ towards a stack of Italian books. It bounced lightly off the thick volume of her favourite novel. At least, what had been her favourite novel. She’d bought it, hoping the words would be so familiar that things would click into place. Full of bright optimism, she’d opened the book, taken a look at the indecipherable page of words, all formed from Cs and Gs and Ps and Zs, shut the book and thrown it across the room.

The pile had grown quite quickly, from books with quickly regressing age recommendations. She thought she wouldn’t be able to go wrong with picture books, but it looked like she could. It just wasn’t fair, especially since Dawn knew enough to watch TV and laugh in the right places.

Buffy realised that it was probably something to do with the fact that she rarely left the apartment. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to; it was just that she didn’t see the point. She’d patrolled a few times, just so she had something to say when Giles phoned, and she’d gone shopping with Dawn a few times, before the novelty had worn off. She’d just found that she wasn’t really interested.

Which was ridiculous. This was _Rome_. In _Europe_.

Climbing onto her bed, she decided that she would go out. For fun. That night.

There would be dancing.

Or alcohol, maybe.

Oh yes, lots of alcohol.

 

Did they have pubs in Italy?

.

_The end is almost here,  
The sky, the air, so nice and clear.  
The sound of your decay,  
And the ringing in the air is the sweet debris of yesterday.  
-Bad Religion, Yesterday._


End file.
